


Candy Trails

by DelightfullyDozy



Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Chases, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, I'm Bad At Tagging, Murder, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 09:06:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25847062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DelightfullyDozy/pseuds/DelightfullyDozy
Summary: It was a normal week till a mysterious killer start jumping around London, leaving candy wrappers in its trail. The strangest part is how most of the killings were impossible to happen and strikes at random. It doesn’t take long for Sherlock and John to gain the attention of the killer and for the true game to start.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 21





	1. Chapter 1

It was sudden, that’s all the police knew. One moment they were checking on the person who lived here and the next thing they were running out with hands-on their radios for back up. It didn’t take long till the place was invested with police. They then too became stunned by what they were seeing, shaking off their unease the team marks every small coin littering the ground as they dance over dead body.

Two officers stand apart from the chaos, looking everywhere but the body in the middle. One of them kicks the ground before trying to sneak out their phone.

“You can’t really,” the officer next to him whispers.

The man looks up then back to the phone, “What else are we supposed to do?” he broadly points to the crime scene with his arm. “Do you really think we can solve this, what do you think happened here. A murder, a suicide?” The other opens his mouth but nothing comes out as he looks over the room. His partner has a point, never had he seen something like this. Murder, of course, suicide, it wasn’t uncommon, but this?

For the most part almost everything was dusted, and nothing was found. If nothing new is found they’ll have to label it as a suicide if not ‘unsolved’. After a moment of hesitation, the officer nodded to the man with the phone. “Do it.”

Sitting in his chair John watches as Sherlock paces back and forth in the flat. He stops and takes a breath, “Bored!” he yells.

And there it is, John thinks before going back to reading his newspaper he had in his hand. He knew this was going to happen, there wasn’t a single case that caught his attention this week. But he could deal with a bit of whining from his flatmate. He flips a page as Sherlock speeds up his pacing.

Sherlock yells again but John didn’t blink an eye. He knew what Sherlock was trying to do, if he was bored, he could go out by himself, he didn’t need to entertain him by getting angry or suggesting things to do. And besides, a case always manages to show up that will catch Sherlock's eye and once more they’ll be running around, possibly in extreme danger like always. Trouble always finds them, John sighs internally before flipping another page. As if the world heard his thoughts Sherlock's phone vibrated.

A second didn’t even pass before the phone was tightly held in his hands, eyes wide, desperate for something interesting. A smile splits Sherlock's face and John knew.

“who’s that.”

“The police, now get up we have a new case to solve.” Sherlock shot to the door as John folds his newspaper and set it aside, he’ll finish it later. Sherlock throws open the door and flies down the stairs, leaving John to shut the door and to casually follow after.

As John walks out into the cold morning he could see Sherlock already climbing into a taxi. Convenient, John huffs before climbing in too. The car took off down the road as soon as the door clicked closed.

The car ride was mostly quiet, empty with words till they arrived. They reached the edge of London, the car slows downs on the gravel road that leads to a large white house. Bright yellow tape cuts off the large open space with only one police officer loitering outside. Sherlock takes no time to jump out, once again leaving John to pay the nice taxi driver.

Sherlock bounds down the path and ducks under the tape before facing both the door to the house and the officer. He nodded in a silent greeting at him as he walks past. Mind already buzzing with information of the man who lived here Sherlock pushes open the door just as John joins him. Heavy, expensive door, white dustless hallway, no pictures on the walls.

A man who values his wealth more then anyone else, Sherlock concludes as they both walk down the path. John matches his fast pace as they aim for the kitchen, where no doubt the stench was coming from. A few coins liter the hallway, Sherlock didn’t take a second look at the two as they pass.

The hallway opens up and the two pauses as soon as their eyes landed on the body in the middle of the kitchen. Coins, glass, and chairs litter the ground, one cabinet was open, all leading to the body in the middle. The body. It was a young man on his back, mouth full of coins with a lone hand on his throat.

“bloody hell," chokes out John, Sherlock couldn't help but agree just a tiny bit. No doubt that this was a murder. His eyes rack over the kitchen, slowly making the story of what happened. John could feel Sherlock's mind start to hum before he steps away from him and closer to the body. John stays back, still trying to get over his shock. Gruesome was all John's mind came up with as he stares at the man's blue face, frozen in fear. It was nothing compared to brains or guts, but unlike most, the man must have had a slow death, who would do something as dark as this>

A lot of people, John hears a little voice in hisheadad, but he shakes it off. This was not the time, he has a murder to solve. Like Sherlock, he closes the space between him and the body. Now, this close he could see how dark the blue his face really was, the red lines in his eyes, and how his shirt collar was wrinkled from where he, no doubt tried to fight for his life. John shakes his head again, this time more in pity before going to talk with the officers around. This must have a clear killer in the family, or maybe an ex-lover, or the off chance that this was some sort of accident or suicide.

Behind John Sherlock dances around the room, looking at every angle. He kneels down next to a knocked-down chair. There was a struggle, Sherlock thinks, but nothing that would involve no one but the man himself. The only way it would work was if he was putting coins in his mouth on purpose, unless he was an idiot there was no way this could happen.

As he was looking around, trying to see if he was missing something important, he catches a flash of red. Sherlock freezes, it was alone, red candy wrapper laying right beside the dead man’s head. It was almost invisible if you were standing in the entrance.

His mind starts to go overdrive, the man didn't eat candy. It was left by the killer.

He twists around to where John and the officers stood in conversation, he didn't say anything as he walks up and grabs an evidence bag and tweezers sitting on the counter, although he doubts that the killer had left their fingerprints on the wrapper. Back near the body, wrapper safely in the bag, he takes a closer look. This man wasn't liked, it was clear, no picture frames. A quick check of his wallet and phone, full of many stacks of money, shows no kids or anything that is dear to him. The house itself was clearly a show on his money, not for luxury.

He moves the face around, eyeing the veins and skin, a lot of people could easily hate him enough to kill him. hands slide over his chest, something was wrong.

It was a lot bigger than any normal deceased orrson's chest, a little pressure on it proved something much worst. He tries his stomach, it was like any normal dead body. Impossible, Sherlock mutters something before going back to the man's chest. If he were to guess right, there were coins in his lungs. A quick check under his shirt shows no cuts or anything that would imply someone had cut him open.

Back at the flat it was the same as before the duo left except that Sherlock was deep in thought. John didn’t dare try to read after they came back, with everything that happened John couldn’t concentrate on anything. As soon as they came back Sherlock took over the kitchen like always, but for once he came up empty-handed. It both excited and enraged the detective, John just watches this happen at a distance. He had no idea what could have happen, as he was questing the officers Sherlock had yelled to get the body dissected up before dragging John out without another word.

He tried to help multiply times as Sherlock looked at the wrapper under the microscope, but he couldn't add anything that Sherlock didn't know. If he didn't know better, and he does, this stumped Sherlock as much as it did him. So he just stayed back as the day darkened, letting Sherlock do his 'magic'.

It was almost completely dark when Sherlock's phone vibrated again, John looks up from his laptop. Sherlock continued walking, not giving the phone his time of day. When it was clear he wasn't going to look John gives a soft grunt before putting his laptop away and standing up to look at the phone. It was still on with on message that says 'come here now' followed by the address. The number had no name.

The screen went dark and Sherlock went on with his pacing. The phone vibrated again right as John was planning on sitting down again, this time it says 'now, please. As soon as you can.'

This would be good for a brake, although John wasn't sure if Sherlock will walk out of this case easily. He places the phone down and faces Sherlock, a plan already forming.

“I think I’m going to go for a little walk.” He watches Sherlock, he did nothing to show that he heard him.

“there was a new candy store that opened close here,” still nothing. “I think they just started to sell the same kind of candy that you found at the crime scene, but that was a while ago.” Sherlock's head peaks up, now he caught his attention. “I think that it’s worth looking at.”And it goes right past the address the phone gave.

“Great thinking. why didn’t I think of that first.” Sherlock spins on his heels and takes his own jacket, taking the lead down and out of the flat and to the street. Together they walk side by side, John watches carefully as Sherlock is lost in thought again.

John was the first to spot the officers, peering around the people he could see a car that had ran into a building. The more they walk the more of the car he could see, just like seeing the man stuffed with coins the scene sent a shock through him, stopping John in his steps. The car front was completely smashed with dark red blood still slowly spilling out. No way anyone could survive that.

Sherlock walks on a few steps before stopping as he realized John wasn’t with him. He spins around and faces John how was frozen in fear. Catching on he looks to the crash, “impossible,” he whispers before walking towards the car. It was just like the other murder, something that shouldn’t happen. John joins beside him.

"It would be impossible for that car to even reach that speed to create that type of impact," Sherlock says before moving past and peering into the crushed car.

"Well, if this car can't go that fast to crash in that way, then what happened?" The detective ignores his partner as he slowly walks around the whole car. When looking through the crushed back seat window he freezes.

"John, you don't happen to have a glove on you, do you?”

Chilled wind blew through the crowd on a random street, many people tucked into their jackets except for a short man in the crowd. Slowly he strolls down smiling with both hands in his pocket. His sharp golden eyes drift over stores, many of them were closed. His right pocket shifts before he pulls out a lollipop, his fingers dance around the stick before pulling off the wrapper and stuffing it into his mouth.

While he turns down a random street, he shoves the wrapper back onto his pocket. After doing a large circle around he loops back until he stands in front of a closed dance class. He is the only soul on the street. he takes out his lollipop and tilts his head to the sky, looking straight down the path.

Distantly he could hear muffled screams and thumps coming from the inside. He twists the candy in his hand before smiling darkly and popping it back in his mouth. The man shrugs his shoulder, stretching them out before walking away and letting the sound die out.

Now, what to do next.


	2. Chapter 2

It's been two days and Sherlock managed to contact and interrogate both the friends and family of the people who were killed. He learned nothing but the fact both were disliked, but not enough for someone to snap and kill both. They didn't share common friends, they didn't even live or shop in the same areas. The only way was the killer to be an outside force, and with the killings being so personal it must be a friend or lover they didn't tell anyone about.

But why keep? The thoughts rattle around Sherlock's head as he sits motionless in the flat.

When it was clear that talking to the family wasn't getting anywhere, he searched every candy store in London that sold the candy. After watching every tape he searched out for those who bought it, apparently not many liked the kind, and most were kids anyways.

He needs more information, he needs the killer to kill again. If they do the larger the chance that they'll mess up and he'll catch them.

The floor creaks behind Sherlock, just on time John walks in and sits in his chair, mind full. John shifts, his fingers twitch, eyes burrowing in his head. No matter how much he tries to concentrate John keeps pulling him out, he can't think, can't concentrate. The shifting continues and so does the staring, digging deeper and deeper until he couldn't take it.

John breaks first. "Are you sure that the candy wrappers are important? They seem kind of random, what if they have nothing in common and you're just stringing things together that doesn't matter?"

"Why else would the same kind of candy wrapper be at both murder scene, John. That man who choked didn't eat candy, you could search that entire house and wouldn't find anything." Sherlock didn't move, he can't show that this was getting on his nerves. Unlike John, he has no doubt that this was the killer's way of marking their work. "We just have to wait till they strike again, they can't hide forever. Now that you asked your question please stop you thinking, it's distracting me."

John shifts one more time before stopping and looking away to looks to his computer, moments later the sound of soothing tapping fills the air. A few hours pass and John leaves for something, leaving Sherlock alone as the day passes slowly.

Exactly at Three AM Sherlock's phone vibrated and his eyes snap open.

"JOHN!" Sherlock yells as his eyes sweep the text. "John! Get up! we have to go, they found another wrapper at a murder scene, they have a witness!" Behind him, Sherlock hears a thump and confused muttering as he grabs his scarf and jacket. Not waiting at all for the half-asleep John he throws open the door and flies down the stairs and into the cold night. The cold nips harshly as his face and hands, it did nothing to slow Sherlock.

Pushing through the cold winds Sherlock watches for the nearest cab on the road. Up the road Sherlock's spots one and starts running down to it. The door to their flat jerks opens to show a half-dressed John.

Johns face twist in shock as a puff of white spills out into the dark night, he wraps the jacket tightly around him before running towards Sherlock, who was already more than halfway to the empty cab. John trips over his own feet, stumbling a few feet till he finds balance and catching up and just barely catching the cab as it takes off. John lets out a grunt and slams the door closed, blocking off the cold wind.

He takes a breath before slowly looking over at Sherlock, "You couldn't wait a bloody second for me to catch up before leaving?" John says, still gripping his jacket like a lifeline.

Sherlock snorts before looking out the window. "This is important, they have a witness. And besides, you caught the cab without much problem, so I don't see why you're angry." John did nothing but hugs the jacket closer and looks out the window.

"You said that they found a witness?"

"They were called for a suicide, a girl who jumped out the window. When looking through the girl's apartment they find a man shaking with another wrapper near him, the same kind that was found at the other two." Both fall silent as the car makes its way to the police station.

When the car slows Sherlock opens the door and rushes in the building. John gives the taxi his pay before quickly following Sherlock, matching him step by step as they walk in the building. They walk through the building, Sherlock takes no time ignoring everyone and forcefully push himself into the room the man sits in.

To his surprise, the man did nothing when Sherlock came smashing in, he just sat there moving his mouth silently. He was thin, built like a twig with a blanket covering most of his body as he shakes, a cup of tea in hand. Sherlock could feel John looks over his shoulder to see the man, what did the killer do to this man.

Sherlock walks closer, John wasn't going to like what he was going to do. Before John could even think of what he was going to do Sherlock grabs the man and shoves him to the wall.

"Sherlock!"

The thump echoes through the little interrogation room as Sherlock's face waits inches from the man, "I just keep on falling. I just keep on falling. I just keep on falling." Frowning Sherlock shakes him, the man didn't do anything but kept on muttering the same phrases, the mug still tight in his hands.

John's hands touch his arm, "You can't just grab a traumatized person like that."

"Yes I can, I just did."

Turning back to the man Sherlock growls, "What happened, what did you see. Tell me!" When the man did nothing, he shakes him again. A sharp pull at Sherlock's shoulder forces him to look back at john, meeting his angry gaze he sighs before looking back at the man.

Unaware of the conflict he just keeps on muttering the same phrase, eyes glassy and unfocused. With just slightly less anger Sherlock continues.

"Do you know who killed Kelly?" His head raised a bit, bingo. "Who was it, who killed Kelly?"

"I-I did. I killed Kelly." His raspy voice answered, still in the ghost-like whisper. The room went silent, Sherlock's hand tightens around the man's shirt, that was much easier than he thought it would be.

Like a dying fish, the man starts to gulp down air. "Don't, don't let me fall, not again, I-I. Tears bubble up and spill down his thin, hollow cheek, "I'm so sorry, I don't want to die."

The teacup falls and crashes against the ground as the bone-thin hands try to grip Sherlock's arm, the killer didn't kill him. Did the police come too soon and had to leave him before he was done? They said he was laying on the ground, already gone when the police arrived, this was on purpose. Was this the killer saying they didn't always kill, or is this some sort of message.

A man who killed a woman by pushing her out of the window keeps on saying 'I just keep on falling', the rich man who choked on coins, and he has a sneaking suspicion that the man in the impossible car crash had something to do with speeding or messing with cars. He has the pattern.

Still lost in his thoughts John takes over "Who did this to you?"

The man whispers, lightly Sherlock shakes him, and more tears come flowing out. They were done, if they spend more time with this man it would be a waste. The man slides down the wall as soon as Sherlock's hands let go, immediately he leans into his legs and sobs. Both John and Sherlock step away from the distraught man and the mess of glass and tea.

While John watches with pity Sherlock turns to the small table which held a bright pink wrapper in a baggie, how many crimes had this killer got away with because no one pays attention to a little wrapper. With how well every crime scene is made Sherlock would say a lot.

"Come on John," Sherlock says while grabbing the bag and tucking into his pocket. "I have everything we could get from this man, let's go." Stepping out of the room he could hear John right on his heels.


	3. Chapter 3

After threatening the man and ignoring the scolding from John, Sherlock finds himself back in front of the three wrappers, thinking. As far as he knows there have been two kills, but he's certain there's more with how professionally the murders had been planned. Another thing is that letting people live could be his go to, as to why not many murders with candy wrapper are popping up in the news.

Back to the wrappers, one red, one purple, the last being pink, they don't seem to add anything to the murders, only acting as a signature. The other way the people connect is that none were well-liked, even the mentally scarred man after a quick question to the victim's family on the way out.

Could he reel in the killer? It would be a gamble, the killer clearly plans their attacks but picks them by random, even with little time to both plan and act. He is still surprised by how the killer traumatized the man in so little time.

Sherlock shakes his head, that's not what he needs to focus on, who could attract the killer. Not John, he's too nice, nothing like those who were targeted.

He was though, a perfect fit. He is hated by almost everyone but John in certain situations. Would he work, the killer has done this before, and he would have no chance if he had was caught off guard. His best bet is to either get someone who will play the part naturally, or he will be stuck running around until the killer slips up.

Sherlock's hands curl under his chin as his eyes focus on the wrappers, something clicks. Why didn't he think of this before! He jumps to his computer and immediately scans the internet, it didn't take long till a very sketchy website catches his attention, something about the supernatural.

With a click the messy page pops open, Sherlock physically flinches back at the bright colors and shifting background. He shakes his head before looking closer at the cramped page, words covering every inch with pictures of weird summoning symbols written in what looks like blood. Did people really believe this stuff? That if desperate enough the writings in blood will make it come true? Sherlock snorts before making his way through the text.

A Trickster, so that's what the killer is mimicking. Killing assholes and leaving wrappers to show their involvement. The text confirms the pattern the killer is following, but the only problem is that they were in London, there were millions of jerks running around everywhere.

Without a word he highlights the pieces of information, which was only a small sentence in the glob of text, taking the computer Sherlock stands up and places it on John's lap, sitting it on top of his computer he was typing on.

John jerks back at the screen as Sherlock goes back to his seat. "So we're dealing with a copycat, a Trickster?" He says, moving the extra computer off his lap, "So we know where the killer's going to strike?"

"There are a lot of awful people in London, for all we know the killer is picking people as they find them. If anything the information doesn't help at all. All it did was confirm my guess." John's mouth opened before closing, wanting to add something to try to help but nothing came to mind. Sherlock shifts before going back to his thinking.

"You would think that someone with a name like Trickster would do harmless jokes and not brutally murder people in the worst way possible." John huffs, leaning back into his chair.

"The killer might, in their own twisted way. Just think about it, John, a rich man who abused his power chokes on his own money, a man who pushed a girl out the window keeps saying 'I just keep on falling.' Anyone could connect the dots."

John hums and continues to tape a few more words on his computer before saving and getting up. "How about a cup of tea, I feel like that would help." Sherlock didn't move but John still went into the kitchen anyway, letting Sherlock mull over the new, and useless information. Sherlock's eyes close as he listens to John walk up the kettle sitting on the stove. The kettle clinks as John picks it up and takes off the lid.

The tips of Sherlock's mouth twitch down, he hears no water running, there is no reason for John to wait this long to put water in the kettle. It's clean, he hasn't touched it since John had gotten mad at him after an experiment gone wrong in it. 8 seconds and still no water, the floor creaks just slightly, John was thinking, of what? Sherlock opens one eye to see a worried John looking at him in confusion

"You, didn't happen to put something in the kettle, did you?"

"What makes you think- "John shakes the kettle before spilling the contents on the nearest flat object. "That." Candies, the same kind that was put at the crime scenes. Sherlock's eyes snap around the flat, when landing on John he found nothing to show anyone broke in, the person was flexing their skill.

"Looks like our killer sent us a gift."

"Were next!"

"Not you, you haven't done anything, it's aimed at me." And of course, the killer would put the candy where he wouldn't find it immediately. John's eyes follow Sherlock as he gets up and starts looking around, making sure to check every corner and edge of the flat and picking at different colored lint. When Sherlock didn't find anything he went to the door, nothing is a millimeter out of place. His eyes narrow. "Don't worry, if anything it's an intimidating move, something to try to scare us."

John shifts, his friend's words did little calm the worry sitting heavy in his gut. Someone broke into their flat and managed to mess with their stuff without Sherlock or him knowing. Now that he knows hopefully Sherlock would be able to find how the killer got in.

Behind John's chair, Sherlock walks past, still glaring at everything, to his annoyance nothing was showing a break-in, unable to do anything else Sherlock sits back down just as John started to poke the candies.

As far as he could tell the candies has nothing wrong about them, there is no way they could be tampered with, could it? What about that first murder, the fact that there were coins in the man's lungs, it was imposable. Before Sherlock could do anything John pops one into his mouth and cringes, no doubt surprised by the strong taste. He would guess that would answer his question.

John shakes his head before walking off, taking the kettle with him. It wouldn't be the first time a killer had played with them, he would have to look into that tomorrow, but now he has to try to catch the killer before they strike them again.

Sherlock stands up and opens the door just as John peeks into the refrigerator, "Bloody hell" John whispered just as the door clicks closed. "I just bought that." With a frown, John pulls out the now colorful milk carton, hand on the cold handle he shakes it. The candy rattles around from the inside, the lid still unopened. He sighs before putting it back and shutting the door, he guesses that finding candies randomly around is going to be common till this ends.

Looking over his shoulder he finds Sherlock gone, of course.

Sherlock came back a few hours later with a little box in hand, walking on John who was placing the candies next to the skull. "Where did you go?"

"Nowhere important John," He bends down next to the door and hides a single, tiny camera under the couch.

"Cameras?"

Sherlock gave a hum before hiding more around the flat. Wouldn't he try to place the cameras where it would catch the killers face, John shakes the thought away. If he was being honest, Sherlock just getting a glance of the killer's shoes could solve the entire case.

It takes a few minutes before Sherlock sits back down, John knows that look in his eyes. "You're going to sit there all night, aren't you." It wasn't a question and Sherlock knew it, he took the time to not answer as John sighs. Did he really expect him to answer?

Shaking his head he walks away and into the bathroom, if Sherlock wasn't going to drag him out in the middle of the night he might as well take advantage.

John disappears into the bathroom, leaving Sherlock to do nothing but to sit and wait. The light from the window slowly fades as the night takes over, taking much too long in Sherlock's option.

After hours of listening to the smallest creeks and walking around the flat without a sound, light starts to shine through and onto the floor. The light captures Sherlock's eyes and he jumps to his feet and raced to the victim's families and friends. The choked man had no friends or anyone who liked him, parents didn't hide the fact that they were glad he was dead. Useless, next was the man who died in the car, he was a little more liked within his family, although he didn't have any close friends. He had no mysterious candies showing up, or if he did, he didn't tell anyone, a quick illegal look into his house shows nothing too.

More annoyed than he arrived he stalks out, completely ignoring the weird looks he got. The third man didn't have any candy, as the crime wasn't planned beforehand. As he walked around, thinking, people around him tried to muffle some laughter, again Sherlock ignored it and went back to the flat.

He hates cases like this, he needs action, something to chase. Not this slow game of chess that he isn't even playing. The door slams behind him and a muffled complaint of Mrs. Hudson followed soon after, but he had no energy to even try to feel sorry for it, let alone fake it.

Falling into easy paranoia Sherlock checks the flat once more, even taking a glance in the cabinet and the fridge. The only thing he finds is a carton of milk filled with some colorful candies, with how John acted before he left it explains where he was now. Other than that nothing had been touched or tampered with, with a nod Sherlock goes back to his thinking, pacing randomly around the flat.

He didn't know how long he was in his head, still going nowhere, only getting shaken out when he heard footsteps on the stairs. The recognizable pattern calms him and soon John walks in with milk behind him.

John takes a few steps before backtracking his eyes to Sherlock. "You have something on your back." John walks up and pulls off a yellow sticky note from a still pacing Sherlock. He twists the note to show a Kick me written in thin, fancy lines. Sherlock twists around to face John, noticing Sherlock he shows the writing that was stuck to his back for the day.

After hesitating for an eighth of a seconds Sherlock's mind began to work out the possibilities. He didn't feel anyone place it on his back, and he never took off his jacket in the past two days. The sticky strip held a good amount of dust and hairs, so it had to be pressed on for it to end up that way. With the candies appearing, would it be such a stretch to have it sitting somewhere in the flat? He takes the note, it was yellow on the other side as well. It wouldn't hurt to check.

Still in the middle of his thoughts, Sherlock stands up and grabs a camera that was pointed at the couch during the night. There was no logical way if this were to be true. He slips out the little memory card, it looks untouched and still brand new. Blindly Sherlock grabs the nearest laptop, which so happens to be johns. He hears John's voice his displease and felt his angry gaze as he typed in the password without any trouble. Plugging in the card Sherlock fast-forwards through the video, though John walking away and himself standing up and pacing.

As the light starts to show through the window Sherlock stops, letting the video play at normal speed. It takes only a few seconds before Sherlock in the video sees the light and jumps up, turning away to show the stick note right in the middle of his back. What?

John's mouth opens in surprise, he thought someone caught Sherlock off after he left this morning. Sherlocks face twisted in confusion and anger, he replays the tape again, then again, fear now slowly flooding into Sherlocks system. There is no way the note could be placed on his back, it wasn't on the couch, it wasn't anywhere before somehow appearing on his back, how?

John watches from afar, a little creeped out by what happened. It's one thing to put candies in their flat, it's a whole other thing to put something on Sherlock in his own home without his knowledge. Looking back to Sherlock he's watching it for the third time, this time slowed down and his face an inch away from the screen.

Hopefully, this is just a very simple trick that Sherlock is overlocking, John doesn't think he can deal with a Sherlock that can't solve a murder. He could already see the mental breakdown slowly forming.

He shakes his head and sits back down, it hasn't even reached noon, and yet he's already feeling tired. His old chair creaks below him as his eyes close slowly, letting the murders and stress fully weigh down on his shoulders. It must half been halfway through the video when Sherlock started muttering to himself and John close to being asleep.

Sherlock's head snaps up and looks to the sticky note, he could work with that. He picks it up and makes his way to the kitchen, now where did he put the test tubes. He twists around before opening one of the cabinets on top, letting a pound of glitter fly right into his face.


	4. Chapter 4

The scene slows before stopping, the glitter twinkles in the air, just barely letting Sherlock’s face of pure annoyance be seen though. Gabriel snorts at the sight on the tv in front of him, he wondered when he was going to stumble upon that. It’s funny, sure, but not his best work. You don’t fix what isn’t broken he guess.

Crossing his arms he leans back into the chair and tilts his head at the scene, he could do better if he was being honest. Covering Sherlock in glitter doesn’t do much with teaching him a lesson. He’s already used up most of his spare energy, so this has to be done on a budget. That’s fine, he did more with less before. But of course, the one-million-dollar question pops up, how to go throughout with it.

He’s already doing what Sherlock hates the most, a mystery he can’t solve. The growing bodies with no answer in sight to leave him just as dumbfounded as the others. A lesson that he is just like the people around him. His fingers tap the armrest before Sherlock on the tv unfreezes.

Like he predicted Sherlock didn’t look angry or do anything interesting, if only he could push him to react more. Sadly you can only do so much with a smart person, ironically, they’re more blind than everyone else.

Sherlock shakes his black jacket, knocking off the loose glitter as Gabriel’s mind already stirring up an idea to make this game a lot more fun.

How could one lure out a detective, a kidnapping? Na, too large for him right now, maybe another murder. One that would be hiding a trick, and like any cheesy murder show he watched, it will lead to him being caught on a camera without his knowledge. That will no doubt drag him out. His pointer finger taps on the armrest again just as Sherlock lights up in the other room.

Someone exploding will no doubt draw him in, maybe his brother could help with this progress. Nothing that will give him a A in creativity, but it will do. With sharp eyes, he watches as Sherlock gets up and walks towards his phone, Mycroft’s name right in the middle.

Internally Gabriel scoffs, face scrunching up a bit, what type of awful parent would name their child that? He’s pretty sure that is some sort of child abuse, they should have their naming license taken away.

He stretches his shoulders before getting up, time to get to work. John wakes in the background as Sherlock answers the phone, eyeing him he turns to the kitchen and gapes. Gabriel pays no mind to the screen, as much as he loves getting on people’s nerves, he’s trying to get Sherlock to break, not John.

The tv shuts off just as he steps out in the afternoon sun and into an alleyway covered in blood. Chunks of guts and bones cover everything, exploding one from the inside out has always been the to-go plan for a quick puzzling murder. A little sad he wasn’t able to give the pedophile time to suffer before death, but he was on a schedule and he has to focus on Sherlock.

It didn’t take long till police rush in and surround the place with yellow tape, once they finished many migrate to the entrance and avoided looking at the mess of meat. He wondered how many people would throw up, he looks up to the thin clouds drifting across the sky. Could this make the medic toss his cookies? Just as his thoughts start to wonder at the possibilities the two arrive.

The sudden stop of whispering caught Gabriel’s attention, looking down at the group of scared people the move to show the duo. Much to his glee both stop in their tracks at the sight, eyes raking across the scene and the sea of red.

As he planned Sherlock made the first move while John stayed back. Gabriel backs up to the opposite side of the door he came from and rested against it. Sherlock went to the other wall.

And.

Sherlock’s hand rest against the wall as he lurks closer, placing his feet right in between splatters of blood.

Now.

Without a sound, a bucket falls from the roof and slams right on top of Sherlock’s head. Gabriel’s smile didn’t waver, that must have hurt. Black, think tar ooze down, steaming heavily in the cold day. You could hear the breaths being held, slowly Sherlock reaches up to the bucket and lifts it. Letting it drip down Sherlock waits a moment, eyes closed before moving it away from his head. The moment it was another bucket fell, this time filled with feathers.

Gabriel brakes, letting out laughs in a burst of mist. Feathers drift around, covering most, if not all the tar on him and the ground. With a wide grin Gabriel bends over a little, a shock of pain shoots through his abdomen, changing his silent laughter into a painful hiss. Dam, he thought that was fully healed.

Sucking up the pain he looks back up, John was closer now, hovering around Sherlock not knowing what to do. Sherlock's thoughts were frozen in place. Hands still holding the dripping tar bucket and the feather bucket covering his face. Thinking no doubt, in his so-called mind palace or something.

He’s swimming in the ocean now, no longer the biggest fish around. More laughter slips out, but more controlled. John takes Sherlock by the shoulders and forced him out of the area, passing by the confused officers still unsure of what happened. No one dared to say a word about the untouched yellow wrapper sitting right on top of his Sherlock’s head. Still smiling, Gabriel dramatically spins around on his heels and lazily walks out to another alleyway, invisible to everything and everyone.

On the way out a large gust of wind hits him, blowing a large cloud over the sun and straight through his jacket. If only he landed in a warmer place, somewhere like the Bahamas or Hawaii. He hates how he could feel the cold slowly seeping through his thin jacket, just enough for him to try to tug it closer.

Once around the corner and away from being viewed he lets himself drop back into visibility. Keeping a smile he snaps again in his pocket, knowing somewhere Sherlock slipped on a lone puddle of ice. He could really go for a hot chocolate or anything hot and sweet. Behind him, he could feel a hum of a security camera.

With a growl Sherlock shakes one of his shirts, having what seems to be unlimited glitter in them. Glancing at his other clothes the dim shine of glitter-covered them all, not even his shoes and socks were left out of the attack. The fact that no bit was covered made his anger grow, no way is the killer doing this alone.

“You found anything yet?” he knows that John wouldn’t find a single thing on the cameras, If the killer or the group could get into his flat without being caught the first time, they could do it again. This doesn’t bother him in the slightest, he’d always prefer a blanket to clothes anyway. Denial, the best defense he has. There is a good chance that if they act like they don’t care the longer it will take for them to try to kill him.

Dropping the shirt on the ground he switches out the wet towel with a blanket, John responds but he didn’t dare waste his time listening. Tightening his grip on it Sherlock walks back into the main room. The first thing he sees is John on his computer speeding through the tape, on the table though sat two cups of tea, still fresh, made around the end of his shower. Taking the full one he sits down, letting the cup warm his hands.

There is a great chance that more than one killer was working together, there is no way once could throw buckets of tar and feathers and cover his clothes in glitter in that time frame. While walking there was no way he had set off a tripwire or anything to cause the falling of the buckets.

A few drops of water drip off his hair as he thinks, not only are they most likely dealing with two people but at least one is someone liked him and his brother. Sherlock forced himself deeper in his seat, he just needs another clue, something that could lead him to solve this. No way the killer could continue without messing up something, anything.

The door shuts loudly as Gabriel walks back into his temporary home with a coffee in hand, he didn’t know how anyone could survive without a heater. Stretching and yawning he falls into his chair, making it creak. With a flick of his hand the tv turns on to show Sherlock, you can really see the gears rolling in that man’s head.

Aaaaaand the fun is gone, he knew that this would happen, too blink to see anything important. With a frown he downs the rest of the sugar-filled coffee and tossed the cup to the side, he didn’t even think about getting a metric ton of donuts to try to lure him out! Nothing remotely sweet had even passed through Sherlock and John's thoughts, and he looked, nothing but a weird white house with memories neatly tucked away. He had a little fun there but eventually left the sleeping Sherlock with the weirdest dream he could make up, it didn’t even shake him, forgot about it the moment he woke up.

If he could leave little clues, he could make things more interesting.

As Sherlock tries to dig himself further into the couch his phone lights up, catching Sherlock’s attention. He leans to the right where his phone sat. He hesitates before grabbing and bringing it to his lap, John looks up as the phone opens up to show a blurry photo of some man. Below has a short explanation of the origins of the photo. Taken a few minutes and feet from where he got covered in tar and feathers.

So this was the so-called Trickster. He has him now.


	5. Chapter 5

"He got caught."

"Who?" From the corner of Sherlock's eyes, he could see John look up to him in confusion.

"The killer, he was caught on a security camera on his way from covering me in tar." John jumps from his seat and moves to Sherlock, looking at the horrible quality picture. You could just tell that he was a male with blond hair, a green jacket, and blue jeans. Nothing that would stand out in a crowd, but that goes for almost every murder they go after.

John pulls the phone closer, taking a good glance at the blurry person. "So we have the high ground?" Sherlock hands over the phone to John, letting him sit back.

"No, this was all planned. The trickster just so happens to get caught by a random secretary camera on his way out? He wants us to think we have a chance, and when we get close, he'll have all the advantages, leading our every move.

The smile John had dropped, unlike other murders with him helping occasionally, he's just being dragged along, doing nothing to help.

John hands the phone back to the half-naked Sherlock, "Was your clothes getting in the way of thinking?"

"Glitter," Sherlock grumbles, setting the phone down and walking to the kitchen. His eyes landed on the few candy wrappers that he had collected, now with the new addition of the yellow, it was clear that they were useless with the capture of the Trickster. It wouldn't hurt to keep track, though. What would be his next move, he can't go out without clothes, as much as he would like to go out in a towel John wouldn't let him step out in this type of weather. But he bet he wouldn't have to worry about that soon.

Pulling up his towel Sherlock turns around to see John walking back, clothes in hand. Just as he predicted.

"Were you planning on going around in just a towel?"

"Of course not, we both know that you wouldn't let me leave like this in the cold, and you would be angry if I took your clothes without asking. So the only logical reaction was to wait and for you to lend me some of your clothes."

"I would have been at least mildly angry."

"Your mild anger would only lead to nothing and this would be easier in the long run." John sighs before tossing over the clothes.

"Just put them on so we can leave." He says before turning around. Sherlock took no time in putting on a white dress shirt, pants, and a large thick jacket. The shirt and pants were small in length, just stopping behind his wrist and ankles.

It would work, pulling the coat over his shoulder he walks out, John follows along. "Go around and look on the roof of the building where the buckets fell off of while I'll look around the body." John shivers a bit at the reminder of the crude image and nods. As they close in on the alleyway, John splits off and walks into the right building, leaving Sherlock to deal with the incompetent officers.

Still shocked by the death they just let him pass, softly shuffling before falling silent again. Once he passed his eyes lands on the large chunks of meat and blood, as he approaches, he keeps an eye on the roof while staying in the middle. He didn't want another 'trick' to happen.

Sure that no buckets will fall, Sherlock gets closer. Carefully stepping around small drops of blood he bends down on one knee to take a close look at a small chunk of meat near the edge. Taking out a vial he scoops a mix of dry and frozen blood for the officers too scared to get close, no way is anyone going to be able to tell who this person was without some sort of DNA test. Pocketing it away he could now get a real look at what happened.

Leaning even more closely he eyed the chunk, there seems to be a bone sticking out of the chunk as well as a soaked fabric underneath it. This person must have been exploded, most likely from the inside, nothing can imitate the tears of the flesh.

That would explain most of it, but the lack of burn marks stopped the estimation right in its track. It also doesn't explain how every part of the body was gone, the legs, head, hands, feet. You would need a large number of explosions to demolish every piece of a person, so much so that every inch would be burnt, including the walls. He knows the smell of burning flesh and this wasn't it.

Leaning back Sherlock takes another look at the walls, blood and what he could only assume were bits of the large intestines scattered it. Looking further up he could see the top of John's head, he was done here so he might as well join John.

Getting up he enters the building and walks up the stairs, he walks on John looking around every corner. The area had nothing from a first glance, no tar or feathers laying around, nothing to show anyone was there.

When John looks over, he slowly shakes his head and they both head down back to the alleyway, even going where the Trickster was caught, he found nothing. Frowning, Sherlock spins around and heads back to the flat. Nothing the killer would think as exciting, but he needs a quiet place to put together information.

"So, did you get anything?"

"Only that he challenged me to find him, he's playing with me, taunting me. Giving me just enough clues but not enough to solve anything" Sherlock bounds back into the flat and storms into the kitchen, in his mind the murder scenes flash. What would connect them, something that doesn't involve the obvious.

His hands reach up and pull at his hair in anger, there's something that he's missing, something. Just one thing and he could finish this puzzle, Just. One. Thing. His hands pull harder, there's too much information but nothing connects!

"What do you know about the murders". Sherlock says tightly, making John stop mid-step, the tone abruptly setting off warning bells.

"Um," he peers into the kitchen where Sherlock stood, he was unsettling still. "they, all seem impossible, there are no signs that he was ever there. He seems to like sweets." His words did nothing to unfreeze him, Sherlock was now a ticking time bomb ready to break at anything, he has to try to lighten the load.

What would Sherlock overlook, something so small that he wouldn't give a second thought about? Nothing came to his mind. "He killed them to get your attention?" Still nothing.

He frowns, did he really make a difference in this case, even now he can't do the simplest thing to help. "Maybe the police found something new, they've been looking over every scene since the first one popped up. They must have found something by now." It was a blatant lie, both of them knew that the police wouldn't find anything new that would change anything, but he can't stay here, he needs to do something instead of sitting in the flat doing nothing. He hates feeling like he's just slowing down the investigation.

To busy being attacked by his thoughts Sherlock didn't move an inch, letting John put on the jacket he took off earlier and leave. He really wasn't ready to watch Sherlock struggle this bad, he has seen him struggle before, he's dealt with it. Bored, he just has to try to survive, during a case, there would be at least one clue that would click, madness? What would happen to him then, a mental breakdown?

With quick steps, John flies down the steps and turns right once outside, away from the most recent murder. He didn't want to think about it.

Letting his autopilot lead him he joins the crowd, letting the sound block his thoughts as he turns randomly. Maybe he should meet up with a friend real quick, it'll make the day go faster and when he gets back Sherlock might be calmer. Another lie.

Without thinking he turns into another road, he wasn't a third through when the quiet kicked in. blinking he looks around, it seems to be deserted, this, was weird. He's been down this road many times, I wasn't the busiest, but it had some people walking or driving around. In utter confusion his thoughts shuffle around, trying to make some sort of sense.

"You know, I was thinking of using you more," An American accent says, making john spin around to face what looks like a casual man. Dressed in pants and a green jacket he had dark blond hair and held a Snickers in his right hand. "Letting you solve the mystery ya-know."

John squints, this feels familiar too, he could feel his thoughts fly around but none were sticking.

"But that wouldn't really do anything, would it." While slowly walking closer he shakes the half-eaten candy at him. His mind slugs, no thoughts sticking for more than a moment, he was drugged. The American came closer and the street blurred. he's the killer, the Trickster. John blinks slowly, his body slowing down.

The world drops around and John finds himself on one knee, he needs to call Sherlock. His fingers only twitch, not making an inch closer to where his phone was.

"Oh don't worry," The Trickster adds, his words wedging between the feeling of falling. John's eyes fall, leaving him kneeling in darkness. "I treat my guests very well, all you have to do is relax and this should all be over soon." The ground opens up and John falls, dropping on the ground out cold.


	6. Chapter 6

The dark space around John slowly lightens to a dark red, slowly, his eyes flicker and his mind starts to regain consciousness. Adjusting to the bright light his hands twitch and he feels his heavy head sits on his shoulder. Pins and needles shoot up both his arms and his head start to pound, a soft groan slips out. When did he fall asleep?

Cracking an eye, he rolls his head to his other shoulder, gravity pulling harshly at him. One eye fully open and adjusting to the light he flexed his fully numb arms, the needles flying up to his shoulder in waves. As his hands start to regain feeling the more his wrist burns, he was kidnapped. Head still throbbing John jerks his head down to his arms wrapped down in ropes as well as his torso. Any drowsiness he once had dropped, and he looks around.

He was seated in the far-right corner of the small bedroom, he was alone so far. Who knows how long that would last. Along with his surprisingly nice chair, there was a bed on the other side in the middle of the wall, a nightstand next to it. Two doors were there too, he didn’t know which would be the exit, so they weren’t much help.

With nothing else to do John, starts pulling on his binding, if he gets loose before the Trickster notices, he could get the upper hand.

Frowning, John return his focus to bindings and starts to pull and twist his wrist, the professionally tied ropes refused to loosen under his abuse and it didn’t take long till strips of blood starts to lead down the armrest.

Maybe he could chew it off, it’s not something he wants to do or tell anyone he did, but if it comes to it. Before he could even try to bend over, the door on the other side of the room jiggles and the same blond man comes walking in, a platter with a large lid in hand.

“Oh, you’re awake, had a nice rest?” the Trickster says, shutting the door behind him with a foot. Happily, he walks over and sits the platter on the nightstand, ignoring the glare John sent his way.

“What are you going to do to me” The trickster turns to him, a proud look on his face.

“Nothing too bad,” He rubs his hand before giving the room a look before looking back at John, smiling he exits. Swallowing, John slowly watches him before looking back to the platter, he couldn’t help but feel fear. With all the things the Trickster did what does he plan for him, he couldn’t help but remember the man who choked on his own coins.

John closed his eyes and pulls at his hands again, this time they move just a tiny bit. Pulling at the ropes his left-hand slips out first and he hastily unties the other and his torso.

Dropping the ropes to his feet he stumbles a little before reaching the door the Trickster went through, locked. Without a second his hands fall to his pockets, ever since he started working with Sherlock, he keeps a small lockpick on his person whenever he went.

Finding nothing he drops to his knees and starts looking in his shoes. While he looked, he keeps an ear out, as at first glance the Trickster doesn’t seem that strong, but he would rather sneak by than try to fight him.

John curses to himself, other than some lint he had nothing. He knew that the Trickster was a threat but now it was dawning on him, getting up he goes to the door to the right. He only finds a small bathroom, no windows or glass. Taking a breath he looks back to the platter and its lid, having a weapon would give him a great advantage. Careful of and ‘tricks’ he goes over and grabs the lid, the handle is surprisingly warm, pulling it up he finds food. Dried meat, fruit, and even a cup of water. Was it poisoned? Some sick test to see how long he could stay alive. John slams down the lid and marches up to the door.

Rearing up his leg he kicks the base of the handle, the door shakes but doesn’t budge. After kicking it a few more times he backs up, leg aching, and the door showing not a scratch. “Bloody hell” Muttering more curses to himself John backs up and sits on the bed he was given, how long will Sherlock realize that he was gone?

Out of nowhere, John blinks and finds himself looking at the ceiling, did he fall asleep on the bed, he doesn’t remember how long he sat there.

“You might want to eat while you wait, fighting will only make things worse.” A thousand thoughts rush through John and he jerks up to the Trickster looking at the untouched food.

“Why are you doing this?”

The Trickster looks to him from the corner of his eye, “For Sherlock to learn his lesson.”

John bristled at the answer, “What do I have to do with it.”

“Do you think he’ll listen to a random person,” He spins to face John, “I’ve been doing this for a while, and I know some people will only listen to pain.” He taps his head, “keeps the lesson fresh for a long time.”

Sill he had a smile, bight and happy as if he didn’t kill all those people. “Why Sherlock then? Why kill the others but not him.”

The Trickster shrugs, “I gave them a chance, but they didn’t try to change so they got what they asked for.” The Trickster spins the lid he held, seeming to be growing board.

“What lesson?” John questions, this time his panic has somewhat softened and he started to plan. He got out once, he could get out again. While the man in front of John looked more to the lid he starts pulling on his bindings.

“You know what, everyone who met he knows what I want.” The Tricksters smile became tight and he drops the lid onto the food. John refused to flinch at the sound, completely ignoring how his arms pull at the bindings as the Trickster meets his eyes. The smile seems nothing more than forced and he turns back to the door he came from.

As he leaves John continues to pull and twist his arms, only now did they decide to loosen. Dragging out his arm the Trickster now was closing the door, pulling the knot he sprints out, slamming into the door as the lock clicks shut. It was no use, as far as John could see, he can only wait.

From the other side of the door, Gabriel looks to the shaking handle, a frown dawning on his face. He lost his cool, but it was fine. He takes a breath and runs his hands through his hair. With John in his possession, Sherlock would no doubt fall to his wishes and he could leave. As much as he hates it, he could at least help some while in witness protection.

Taking one last breath he puts on his carefree smile, this stupid decision to help is backfiring on him more than he thought it would, but he wouldn’t back down just because he’s feeling a little uncomfortable. He fought his brother and almost died, he can finish this before moving on and forgetting that this ever happened.

It’s been about a full two days since he took John, most of it happening while he was drugged. With plenty of food and without a doubt he won’t escape, checking up on Sherlock is next on his list.

With a quick snap, he stands in the middle of the living room, as he expected the pounding from his wound started again. No doubt angered at his mismanagement of his low grace. After the moment of nausea he gets to looking around, he found himself stalking in the kitchen muttering to himself, hair and shirt a mess. Both had been pulled at multiple times with the shirt hanging low at the abuse.

Tilting his head Gabriel went to check John’s room. It was just like he left it, clean except for the single Snickers wrapper he left on the bed. Sherlock is smart enough to know what that means.

Even from a room away he could still hear Sherlock, mind close to shambles. If he doesn’t make a move to the room to find his roommate missing, he’ll have to intervene soon. He wants this to be over soon so he could rest and maybe not take care of his anger by killing random people. Finding Sherlock, again he watches for a little. Did he even know that two days have passed, how long will it take for him to do something productive? If he could make his paranoia louder, he could get the ball rolling.

He never likes doing this directly. Focusing he slowly builds the feeling, normal enough for him to not question it. Slowly it swallowed his thoughts and Sherlock jerks to look around, clearly showing his surprise.

Stopping, Gabriel watches from the side, as for the first time Sherlock looks around with a somewhat clear head. Confused he stands up and walks into the living room, peering into the bathroom before looking towards John’s room. Fear rolls off of him in waves but shoving it down he walks forward. Pushing the door to the side he freezes at the innocent Snickers wrapper on John’s bed.

“John, John!” Sherlock snaps out and he rushes out, Gabriel stays behind, watching with hands on his hips. He wonders if Sherlock thinks he’ll find his friend dead. He wonders if Sherlock thinks he’ll find John chopped to pieces, splattered on the wall, and many other horrendous ways he might find his friend.

A dead John would have been great back then but now it leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

Fear is a good replacement, it’ll make the lesson stick, the day scarring into his memories so he won’t forget.

Gabriel spins to the exit in no rush, after he got John, he had set up some concealed hints that would lead Sherlock all around until he reaches the place he planned the confrontation to happen. It was a poorly put together plan, but that’s what happens when you let your emotions get the better than you. 


End file.
